


Nothing Changes

by thedevilchicken



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Blood, Bloodplay, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, Injury, M/M, Mid-Canon, Phone Calls & Telephones, Pre-Canon, Violence, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22058554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: "Do you remember?" Santino asks.He does. John remembers everything.
Relationships: Santino D'Antonio/John Wick
Comments: 7
Kudos: 157
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Nothing Changes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeverwinterThistle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/gifts).



The thing about Santino is there was never a time when he wasn't an asshole. In that, at least, nothing's changed at all. 

Wherever John goes in the world, the Continental is always the Continental. There's maybe a different flavor in its different branches, sure: New York's not Rome and Rome's not London, and London will never be Paris, or Tokyo, or Shanghai. It's been a really long time since the last time he was in the Continentale di Roma, though, since he was there playing errand boy for Viggo Tarasov. Viggo had sent him, Baba Yaga, _lo Spettro_ , to make some kind of a paradoxically blunt point, but John remembers how Gianna D'Antonio just cut straight through all that bullshit. She saw through it but she didn't dismiss it just to teach them the lesson they'd probably earned - she listened, then she talked to her father, and they agreed to what was best for all their interests. 

Even then, everyone said she was worth ten of her brother. But now Gianna's dead and anyhow, John didn't meet Santino till he got back to New York. 

He's only just put down the telephone - the room phone, not his phone, because his is just as fucked as he is - when it rings again. He could ignore it, sure. He could leave it off the hook and act like he doesn't know there's someone calling, but he knows. He should just yank the wire out of the wall like all those times he's used one as a makeshift garotte and go to bed, and if someone really wants him that fucking badly they can call the goddamn front desk and have them send someone up. He knows he should leave it because he knows who's calling. He doesn't. 

He sits down. He picks up. He takes a sip of bourbon and he waits, the receiver pressed up to his ear though fuck, it hurts his hand to hold it. And he listens to him breathe from the other side of the Atlantic ocean. He lets the silence stretch, because he was never the one who hurried to break it. 

"Do you remember how we met, John?" Santino asks. 

He doesn't reply, but he knows he doesn't need to. The fact he's not hung up on him again will be more than enough to keep him on the line. 

"I do," Santino continues. "I remember very well."

John closes his eyes. He slouches and rests his head back against the back of the couch. He remembers, too, even if the reason why is all down to how Santino pissed him off. 

He remembers how the guards patted him down before he walked into the room, and how he'd cleared his throat twice before Santino even looked up at him. He was lying on his back on a museum bench seat in a really well-cut suit except the jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was texting, thumbs still jabbing at the buttons as he glanced at John and then back down at the screen again. He seemed intent on making him wait, and so John waited. He'd met so many people like that before that he understood it for what it was: a not particularly sophisticated power play. Or maybe the guy was just an asshole. 

Eventually, he sat up. He hit send. He turned to John and raised his brows. 

"Do you like art, Mr. Wick?" he asked. 

John glanced around the room, at the statues and the paintings. "No," he said, honestly, because he couldn't raise a reason not to. "Not really, no." 

"Then we have that in common. Neither do I." He set his phone down on the bench beside him, on top of the jacket he'd bunched up to use as a pillow though John guessed it'd make his tailor cringe. He stood. "My father is a great lover of art." He gestured around the room. "All of these things you see belong to him. My sister, too; she loves art." He tilted his head. He folded his hands in front of him, fingers linked. "I hear you had dinner with her. How is dear Gianna?"

"Well."

Santino chuckled. "You're just like they say," he said. He gestured at John, a big gesture, confident. " _Lo Spettro_. Tall, dark and handsome. Has a way with words." He smiled sharply. He let his gaze linger. "So, Viggo Tarasov has sent you to remind me that my father's called a truce between us." 

"Yes." 

"And he sent _you_ to remind me what will happen to me personally if I don't see fit to maintain it."

"Yes."

"Tarasov lacks subtlety." John didn't disagree and Santino spread his arms, palms out. Another grand gesture. Easy. Commanding. "I know what you're thinking: I have a reputation, too. And I could choose to have you killed right here for trespassing on Camorra grounds without an invitation." 

"You could try." 

Santino laughed. It echoed. "You know, I don't think you're very subtle, either. But you can tell your pig of a master that I will honor the truce." He made a shooing motion with one hand. " _Ciao_ , Mr. Wick. Until we meet again." 

And John inclined his head and said, "Mr. D'Antonio," and he was about to turn and walk away when Santino stepped forward, reached out quickly and put his hand on his arm to stop him. John frowned. 

"Say my name again," Santino said. 

"Mr. D'Antonio." 

"Say my full name."

"Santino D'Antonio."

Santino winced like John had just slipped a knife between his ribs. Maybe a blunt one. Maybe a rusty one. 

"Your accent is horrible," Santino told him.

"I don't speak Italian." 

"It's a beautiful language." He squeezed John's arm and then stepped back again. "Perhaps you should learn." 

John left without replying, two steps back and then a turn, and straight down the stairs to the exit, then back out of Camorra territory. Two weeks later, when he walked into Santino's restaurant and put three bullets into the Armenian enforcer sitting in the window seat, he still hadn't managed to get the smug son of a bitch out of his head.

" _Mi dispiace per l'inconveniente, Signor D'Antonio_ ," he said, and he looked at Santino as he put the gun away in its holster underneath his jacket. 

Santino laughed. He stood and clapped. " _Bravo, Signor Wick_!" he replied. Then he waved vaguely at the body. "Please, leave this to me." 

John inclined his head like he was almost, _maybe_ saying thank you, and for a second, he held Santino's gaze across the room. He knew the look; as his men were disposing of the body from the not exactly crowded restaurant, Santino D'Antonio was undressing him with his eyes. Frankly, John found he didn't mind that. As he left, he told himself he just had to keep in mind Santino was the kind of guy who'd just as soon kill him as fuck him. The reputation he had, it was almost hard to say which he might do first; Santino had a temper, by all accounts, but John wasn't sure he knew too many people in their line of work who didn't. He included himself in that. He included himself more than most. 

He only saw him once or twice, maybe three times, over the couple of months that followed, and it was always at official functions. There was a meeting where he stood behind Viggo like the goddamn Secret Service agent, trying to tune out the mundane business chatter and succeeding mostly because Santino kept looking at him; they didn't speak that night, but John heard him really loud and really clear. There was a dinner in one of Viggo's restaurants and John sat at the corner table with the other goddamn payrolled assassins, ignoring the way the Italians eyed their borscht as Santino D'Antonio raised his glass of deep red wine to him across the room. John raised his back. They drank. Santino smiled. John had no goddamn idea what he was doing, except maybe playing with fire and somehow banking on the theory that it wouldn't burn. 

Then, maybe six months in, John got himself stabbed while on the job. He knew he couldn't make it to Viggo's place. Maybe he could've called a friend, except he knew Marcus was working out of town for the weekend and Winston didn't leave the Continental. ERs were out of the question. No vets nearby, at least not that he knew of. But he was only three quarters of a block from Santino's restaurant, so that was exactly where he went. 

"John," Santino said, maybe eight seconds after he walked in, and he rushed to him across the mercifully mostly empty room, just him and some of the New York Camorra, sometime after hours. He helped him down onto the ground, slumped back against the bar, and he pressed both his hands to the wound in John's side that was already pissing blood all over the cheerful tiled floor. Then turned to his men. "Get the doctor," he said, sharply, switching to Italian. "Get him _now_."

John passed out on the restaurant floor and woke up, hours later, definitely not on the restaurant floor. He groaned as he tried to move and the doctor stirred in the chair by the plush king bed. He gave John a quick check and then made an equally quick call; the only thing he said was a sharp Italian _he's awake_ , then he hung up again and John looked around the room, the dark woods, the old money style. It was like Viggo's place, just with a touch or Rome in place of St. Petersberg. 

A few minutes later, the door opened, and the doctor sprang away from repacking his bag. "You should be in bed, Signor D'Antonio," he said, and Santino waved him off; he went back to his bag obediently and Santino sat down on the edge of the bed where John was lying. 

"I'm pleased to see you're still with us, Mr. Wick," he said. "The outcome was by no means certain." 

"Where am I?"

"My home." Santino frowned. "My father's home. Not that he's lived here in a number of years."

"Is there a reason why I'm naked?"

Santino smiled toothily. "You lost a lot of blood, Mr. Wick," he said. The doctor had to give you a transfusion. We thought that to keep you from running away and hindering your recovery...we would take your clothes."

John started to sit up. Santino leaned closer and helped him do it, pulling the pillow up behind his back, one hand on John's bare shoulder, and as he did it, John noticed the bandage at the crook of his arm. He caught Santino's wrist with one hand and the fingers of his other hand brushed at the bandage. Santino's mouth twisted as he tried not to give the game away, but John understood. _Transfusion_ indeed. 

"Mr. Wick."

"Given I'm pretty sure I've got pints of you inside me, I think maybe you should call me John." 

"John. Then you should call me Santino." 

John nodded curtly. "Santino," he said, then he let go of his arm. He closed his eyes, dizzy, the room reeling around him. And, apparently satisfied somehow he wasn't going to wake up dead, he slept till dusk. The doctor told him he should stay another couple of days, but apparently he was used to stubborn patients; he helped John dress, and they ran into Santino on the way out, drinking on the couch. He raised his glass. 

"What do I owe you?" John asked. 

Santino smiled. "Dinner," he said. "Tonight." Then he scowled and muttered _cazzo_ underneath his breath. "Tomorrow night. Tonight I'm killing someone." 

John raised his brows. "Do you need help with that?" he asked, and Santino tilted his head and frowned at him. 

"Are you trying to get out of dinner by offering me a murder, John?" he asked. "Are you even fit to kill anyone except yourself?"

"I'll do," John said. "Consider it payment in advance for next time."

"So you're planning to bleed all over my restaurant again in the near future?"

"I can't promise I won't."

Santino laughed. He swirled his wine. "Then come by the apartment around midnight. We can go together."

Six hours later, they walked into the Armenians' club side by side; in the manager's office, John took out the two guards with his hands while Santino drew his gun. John watched him shoot the guy, calmly, from just far away to avoid the spatter. Then they left and in the alley outside the club's back door, where a man like Santino D'Antonio could not have looked more out of place if he'd tried to, John honestly thought the guy was so post-killing buzzed that he might kiss him. He thought he might go down on his knees on the disgusting alley floor, unzip John's pants and suck him off. He didn't, though he looked a whole lot like he wanted to, or maybe that was just a product of the shitty light. 

"So, dinner tomorrow," Santino said. "The restaurant at eight. Don't be late."

John nodded. They left. Back home in his apartment, John told himself he wasn't thinking about the asshole's smart mouth as he brought himself off. 

Dinner was... _nice_. The food was pretty good and John liked the way Santino talked enough for both of them without expecting much of a reply, and without the conversation turning awkward. John spoke more when they switched to Italian, maybe just so Santino could smile and correct his pronunciation till he got it right. And then, in no time at all, it was time for John to leave again. 

"You should come by again, John," Santino said, as John stood. "The door is always open. Or else you can kick it down if not." 

"I'd pay for that if I did," John replied. 

Then Santino raised his brows and squeezed his arm warmly and said, "Yes, I'm sure you would," but the look on his face said he wouldn't ask for money. John really wasn't sure it was a price he would've refused to pay. 

He called in a few nights later and sat at the bar nursing a bourbon until Santino came in. They ate together. They had a drink together. Santino laughed. Once or twice, John almost smiled. 

He called in a few nights after that, and Santino leaned beside him at the bar and said, "Give me your phone, John." He did, and he watched him add his number, no last name, just _SANTINO_ , all caps. He pressed call and his own phone rang; he picked up and as he was looking straight at John he said, " _Ciao bello. Come stai?_ Should we have dinner tonight?" He switched to John's phone. He put on a mock-serious frown. "Yes, Santino. Your chef makes an excellent _puttanesca_ , but it's your company that I enjoy the most." He switched again. "Thank you, John. I like you, too. Shall we say eight?" He raised his brows at him and hung up both phones at the same damn time, then held John's back out to him. " _Capisci_?"

He understood. The next time, he called first and coordinated; Santino sounded fucking delighted by the whole thing, and they met at Santino's table. 

They had dinner every few nights for months, when they both had the time for it, organized by telephone though Santino was usually pretty tied to SMS. They weren't subtle about it; when Viggo pretty inevitably asked what he was doing playing friends with Santino D'Antonio, John just corrected his pronunciation and told him Santino was teaching him Italian. And every time they met, every time Santino said his name or touched his arm or shared a smile or looked at him the way he did over the rim of a glass of red wine, he knew, he _knew_ , Santino wanted him. John wasn't totally sure why either of them was holding back, except that it was sensible. _Sensible_ wasn't high on the list of adjectives anyone would've used for either of them.

Santino threw a party at the museum one year to the day after they'd met. Viggo was there, of course. So was John, vaguely shadowing Viggo though he had his own invitation sitting there in his inside pocket - it was different from Viggo's, handwritten on the thick white cardstock instead of printed, in Santino's surprisingly neat handwriting. He liked the personal touch of it. And it felt personal as Santino looked at him every now and then, across the room. It felt personal because Jesus Christ, the _way_ he looked at him, and John knew he was doing it right back. They were practically fucking, just ten meters apart across a crowded room. 

It was a whole fucking hour before Santino took John by the arm and led him away out of the room. He let him lead him into a quiet corridor, where he could hear the party but he couldn't see it. He let him push him up against the wall. And when Santino leaned up, he didn't _let_ him kiss him; there was nothing passive at all about what John did. They kissed. They both did it: they kissed each other, Santino leaning up against him and John's hands scrunching up the back of Santino's otherwise perfect dinner jacket. He wondered if the wrinkles would take. 

Santino eased back, smoothing down the front of John's suit. "I've been wanting to do that since..." He trailed off. He gestured vaguely. 

"Since you met me?"

Santino chuckled. "I was going to say _since you arrived_. But both things would be true." 

Then they kissed again, until they heard footsteps heading their way, and then they went back to the party. Honestly, John would've been happy to leave. He wished he had. Or they both had.

An hour later, as he was leaving, someone made an attempt on Viggo's life. Four nights later, he killed the men responsible, but one slashed at his shoulder with a switchblade in the process. And maybe he should've seen Viggo's doctor. Maybe he should have stopped by the Continental or just patched it up himself because he'd done a hell of a lot worse, but he stopped into the restaurant instead. When Santino raised a hand to him across the semi-crowded room full of Camorra, the hand John raised back was red with blood. Santino frowned. He waved him into the back office. 

"I don't need a doctor," John told him. "I just need stitches." And he's not totally sure what he expected to come from that, but Santino taking him back to his place, leading him through his bedroom and sitting him down on a chair in his bathroom really wasn't it. 

He remembers all the rows of shiny colored glass bottles with no names on them, like maybe he paid someone to keep them topped up so he never had to see a label. He remembers how the shower was the size of the whole bathroom in some of the places he'd lived in New York over the years, and how Santino helped him take his jacket off and helped him take his shirt off, helped him strip to the waist so they could get to the cut underneath. He remembers Santino taking off his own shirt and standing there in his stark white undershirt that almost glowed under the too-bright bathroom lights. He didn't bother putting gloves on. He just scrubbed his hands in the sink and then picked up the needle and thread and sat down, straddling John's lap, to stitch him up. 

When he was done, Santino's hands were bloody; he washed them, then he washed John's bloody chest with a cloth soaked in steaming water, and then he washed his hands again. There was blood on his undershirt so he took it off and John looked at him, standing there in his tailored pants and handmade shoes in the bathroom he'd just stitched up a Russian mobster's fucking lapdog. As he stood up from the chair, he could see himself in the mirror past Santino's side, his hair a goddamn mess, the dressing taped there at his shoulder, blood still underneath his own fingernails. He had a bruise on one cheekbone and three over his ribs and when Santino reached out to touch them, John didn't flinch. When Santino stepped behind him and pressed his thumb against a bruise at his lower back, he didn't flinch. The flinch came when he touched his tattoos. 

" _Fortuna_ ," Santino read, tracing the letters with his forefinger. "Do you believe in luck, John?"

"I believe we make our own," he replied. He met Santino's eyes in the mirror. "Don't you?" But Santino didn't answer; he dropped his head and pressed his mouth to the word he'd just read out instead. 

"Stay the night," Santino said. He stepped away. He raised his hands. "It's late. You're injured. Separate rooms. No strings attached." 

"There's always strings attached, Santino," John replied, wry, but what he didn't say was _no_. So he slept in the room next door to his, naked because he'd been bruised and stabbed and stitched and his clothes were slashed and fucking filthy, and aching because Santino fucking D'Antonio had done the stitching, and wondering precisely what the fuck he was doing there. And, every now and then, he thought he could hear Santino through the apartment wall. He was pretty sure he didn't have to wonder what he was doing. He was pretty sure he knew. 

In the morning, there was a brand new toothbrush in the ensuite bathroom, so he brushed his teeth. There was a brand new bottle of his usual shampoo by the sink, so he took a careful shower then redressed his shoulder. His pants had been dry cleaned and there was a fresh pressed shirt hanging there with them on the back of the bathroom door, and when he put it on it was his size exactly. He wasn't sure if Santino had sent out for it or if he'd had it there in the apartment all along, just in case, but neither thing would've been a huge surprise where Santino was concerned. Then they had breakfast together on the terrace in the sun, sleeves rolled up, an unread Italian newspaper sitting on the table. Santino didn't read it. They barely talked. They barely ate. 

When they were done, Santino kissed him, all bitter espresso and not a hint of holding back. He straddled John's lap just like he had to stitch his shoulder and he slid the fingers of both hands into his hair and he kissed him and hell, John kissed him back. He didn't care too much that Santino's back was lodged against the table edge and all the fine china and the silver cutlery and the empty espresso cups rattled together when he moved. He didn't care that the balcony was overlooked by half the damn block, or that one of Santino's hands found its way to the front of his pants, and pressed, and found him starting to stiffen. He mostly just cared that he'd wanted this against his better judgment for over a year by then. He mostly just cared that maybe he was finally going to get it. 

"What do you want, John?" Santino asked, by his ear, and then he bit down at the lobe of it and made him hiss. 

"I want to fuck you," John replied, and Santino laughed. He leaned back to look at him and made the table rattle. 

"What a coincidence," he said, amused. "I want you to fuck me, too." Then he pressed a little harder at the front of John's pants. His fingers curled. He raised his brows. "Right here?"

"In your room." He settled his arms against Santino's thighs. He squeezed his hips, slow and sure. "In your bed." 

"You might pull your stitches." 

"So you'll sew me up again." 

Santino stood. He led him inside. He left the bedroom door wide open and the blinds were all pulled up - frankly, there might have been more obstruction to the view inside out on the terrace. The sun was streaming in through the windows as Santino unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over the back of a chair and it occurred to JOhn that he was pretty sure they'd never met in actual daylight before. But he took off his clothes, watching Santino take his off, too. He really didn't want to look away. 

One the unmade bed, once they were naked, Santino rolled a condom onto John's dick like he'd've almost liked to have told him to go without; a few months after that, when John reached into the drawer by the bed and found the box was empty, Santino suggested it, and John fucked him like that until he came in him and Santino complained halfheartedly about the mess as they cleaned off in his shower. But the first time, that time, Santino went down on his hands and knees on the bed in front of the goddamn window and cursed under his breath in really colorful Italian as John worked two fingers knuckle deep inside him. Santino called him every dirty name he could think of as John pushed his cock inside him. John didn't mind; John kinda liked it; Santino was the one who'd taught him all those words, after all, and when he cursed as John fucked him, he worked out what the rest all were. 

When Santino came, he made a mess of the sheets and called him a goddamn son of a whore. When John had come, bucking deep inside him, he pulled Santino up onto his knees and kissed him, still in him, breathless and one hand splayed firm over his abdomen. Santino reached up and back and pulled John's hair and when John swore, too, in Italian, and Santino laughed out loud. 

"Your Italian's come a long way since we met, John," he said, and John pulled out and Santino groaned. John groaned, too - he'd pulled his goddamn stitches just enough to make himself bleed through the dressing at his shoulder, so he lay down on his back on Santino's bed and Santino peeled the dressing away. And once he'd washed his hands in and come back with the first aid kit, what he did was _not_ replace the dressing. He straddled John's thighs and ran one fingertip over the stitches, stinging. He ran one fingertip through the blood and across John's collarbone and he wrote his own damn name, carefully, a wrinkle between his brows as he concentrated. And when John sat up and looked at it in the mirror across the room, fuck, he could've gotten hard again if he'd just been a few years younger. Santino did, somehow, the asshole, and John watched him jerk himself off with his blood still on his fingers till he came all over John's belly. _Then_ he dressed the cut again. 

That night, after dinner, they went back to Santino's place. They fucked over the dresser with the blinds closed but all the lights turned on, then Santino brought his fountain pen to bed and wrote on him, over his collarbone, blood red ink where John's actual blood had been just a few hours before. In the morning, when he left, he still had _Santino D'Antonio_ written on his skin. 

"Do you remember?" Santino asks, now, from the other side of the world. And he does. He remembers the museum, _Ercole e Lica_ , the asshole who made him wait till he'd finished writing a text message while he was sprawled on his back in a suit that cost more than most cars do. But he also remembers everything else, and he's pretty sure that's the point exactly. 

He remembers the New York truce between the Russians and the Camorra coming to an end just under two full years after it started. The news went out to their phones and Santino's beeped and then John's did next to it and they both leaned over to the table by the bed to pick them up and read, John sprawled half over Santino's chest. Santino scowled and tossed his phone clear across the room where it hit the damn wall and pushed him off and told him, "It says six hours from now, John. Go the fuck back to sleep." But neither one of them slept; Santino straddled his hips and rode him, slowly, then they made out in the gigantic shower until John could get it up again. Santino sucked him off on his knees in the shower with John's fingers in his hair, then they had breakfast on the terrace. John stuffed all the shit he'd accumulated at Santino's place into one black leather holdall and they kissed until they couldn't breathe. And, with five minutes to go, he left Camorra territory. 

John sighs. He finishes his drink then puts the glass down with a clink. He rubs his face. He says, "Yeah," and nothing else, because there's nothing else to say. 

The end of the truce meant the end of whatever fucked up thing it was they'd had. Technically, he guesses, it wasn't the truce that ended it; Viggo told him, "Stay away from Santino D'Antonio!" and John's pretty sure Santino got the same shit from his father, maybe via Gianna. Maybe they could've met in secret, maybe Santino's place or a room at the Continental, but he figures they both decided the personal risk wasn't worth the effort. At the time, it seemed like the right choice; even if every time he scrolled by _Santino_ on his phone he missed learning to curse over a really good glass of wine, it turned out he was never tempted into calling. 

And then, one night, he let himself into Santino's apartment. When Santino came in, John held up his empty hands just so he knew he wasn't there for him and said, "I'm here to ask a favor." Then he told him what he wanted, and he watched him frown. 

"I don't know, John," Santino said, when he was done. "If anyone finds out, I'm done." 

"Yeah," John agreed. Then he slid the empty marker to him. "That's why I'm going to give you this." And he did it, because that was what it took to make him do the thing he did that night.

They made it official at the Continental, with the book on the table and Winston as a witness. He pricked his thumb then pressed it to the marker, and he gave it to Santino. When Winston went to put the book away, the fucking asshole took John's wrist and sucked the blood from the pad of his thumb. John let him. And when they kissed, it was a kiss goodbye. 

"Goodbye, John," Santino says now. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but I hope I never see you again." 

There's really only one way he can take that. John hangs up, then he pours another drink.

Santino's always liked to say he cares about blood but John knows he only cares about what's pumping in his own veins, not his bloodline. Gianna's dead. Their father's dead. If his cousins move against him, he'll just send someone to kill them, too. 

Santino's always been an asshole and the fact is, despite how it could've appeared back then, John never actually loved him. They were never friends, though maybe they were lovers, but he liked him and Santino liked him back and at the time that meant something. But hell, maybe the only thing Santino liked in him was that once upon a time, John had his blood inside him, too. 

Now Santino wants him dead, and all John can do is get there first. 

Nothing in life ever changes. Santino sure as hell never has.


End file.
